Her shift at the cathedral
February 22 2011
Usher of unfamiliar tourists
see her name badge a good name
behold the first stone laid on land so young
by our fathers see how our saints
stain the windows here our choir of sweet sons
send up an unchanging anthem like incense to the rafters
drop down
ye heavens from above and let
the earth open
see . . .
Haiku for Cecily
After Cecily
Lady at the bar
invisible to tender
serves the young dude first
Roll your eyes behind
my back at your peril, son
I still have jandal
Fat makes veins narrow
salt hardens the arteries
takeaways the heart
Nod gravely stroke chin
only to realise that
gravy is on . . .
Amazonia
If I were to draw a long bow and let it go
Astride my steed of ingratitude then
Pink is the colour of saccharine passive
Not tits. They are biopsy punch purple
Radio red chemo yellow battle brown
And your fundraising ribbon Avon ted
No good to me when I'm good and dead
Then if you say I gave up a noble fight
. . .
Pride of the dancing horses
Story and cartoons by Gillian England circa 1972
Listen to your horse
Why don't you listen to your horse. Listen to his riddles.
This is a riddle:
- Why did the bus stop?
- I don't know?
- Because it saw a zebra crossing
The Nest Hoarse
This is a Nest Hoarse
It eats cakes
It is a very small horse.
Then it always has a very . . .
Advice for a young tea turtle
Take no strong drink
only mock tales
stay schooled in what he
tortoise when the bone
chilling china cups rattle
hide in your shell
for this is a mad tea party
with the chime of a 6.9
time to stop drop and cover
temper it with your wit
and a t-tipple only for the
terrified
For . . .
Felix falls
What’s it like?
To look down and out
into space
for God’s sake
To bum-shuffle out
to the edge
then plummet, plummet
at warp speed.
A death-helix descent
Steady breathing
fragile membrane of normal
between you
and fiery disintegration
While the woman that
. . .
For Paddy
You were like Wellington on a good day
A reminder of kind winter light on the horizon
But today we can only watch, helpless as
granite cloud piles onto the tired line
of the Orongorongas and out goes the tide
too far for our liking. All may soon be torn
from its moorings as a southerly buster
rages for days. Then . . .
